Dining on the lane in White City

Step back in time or look around in your own backyard today and one finds that which was true then (in the past) very much resembles where the world seems to reside today.  A time when vibrant communities were synonymous with many people persevering through hard times, but living on the cusp of brighter futures to come.

A time when a large house at the end of a road served as the flagship to a visibly thriving community while at the same time offering a place to gather, dine and live.  My great grandmother's boarding house at the end of Yadkin Street (known as the The Lodge in White City) in what was then referred to as Model City may, for some onlookers today, simply resemble a group of white houses situated consecutively along several blocks in Kingsport, Tennessee.  However, in reality the neighborhood is a living testament to what really counts among people living in communion.

I had the opportunity to join the residents of Yadkin Street for a modern day "White City Reunion." There were children playing in a grassy green common area, adults congregating along driveways to chat and house tours for the merely curious.  Clearly an interloper walking into this scene would immediately understand that the aspect of living that this neighborly environment had retained over the years is the ability for the residents (in this two-block radius) to celebrate themselves and those that once resided there. In attendance at the occasion were several generations of families, neighbors who had moved away, boarders who had lived at The Lodge and my father and I connected by family affiliation. The stories that dominated the day were about the boarding house.  Who lived there, when they lived there, what they would find to eat there, what happened there at a specific point in time, and the old lady who ruled the property with an iron fist (my great grandmother).

Imagine if you will a woman and her family lured to a town revolving around the business acumen of George Eastman to operate a boarding house where the company's young single executives would live. And that property just happened to be part of a development that was characterized as "designed for the workman with the idea that every worker in the city could own their own home." There's no imagination needed to garner the fact that my great grandmother was a woman wise to the opportunistic fortune with which she found herself ~at least that's what I'm led to believe. And believe it or not this post is about the food one finds in such a quaint little collective of Americana.

This was a reunion.  A reunion with a central activity of dining in the midst of the fun and frolic planned for the day, but no pot luck and given the familial nature no alcohol~save the adult beverages that may have been sipped in the privacy of some homes or cleverly disguised in a solo cup.  I really can't say that with great certainty, but that's how I would have consumed something not offered for general consumption.

The meal of barbecue and side dishes was spread out along a buffet line. And though that may sound rather ordinary it was not, because of the very nature of the gathering, but also because of one specific food dish (and maybe the banana pudding). What stood out along this long smorgasbord of options was a delightfully layered dish of Cornbread Salad. Something new to me, but apparently rather common to those in attendance as many were amused at my glee to eat this dish.  There are a ton of recipes offered online with only subtle differences in the ingredients that are used to prepare the dish.

It's those subtle differences that bring me back around to my point in telling this story of a neighborhood.  That is, a physical place may shift and bend with the changing times and trends, but the essence of what makes it wholly a place to return to remains the same~a place one can always call home even after being pulled away by life.

Choosing Between Two Rubies Or Not

One of life's most difficult moments comes in choosing between two very attractive options.  And in some cases, a multitude of selections which I seem to encounter every time a menu is placed in front of me at a restaurant.  I am "one of those people" that likes to hear the specials recited by the staff so that I can imagine the dish as described in real time or in some cases if I know the chef and the chef knows me to ask the chef to make a selection on my behalf.  (Needless to say some astute staff know how to make such an opportunity worth their effort, while others, usually the greener of waits simply panic and fall into a great pit of sweat). By narrowing the field I avoid the problematic nature of analyzing the choices in front of me and allow my senses or someone else's to guide me. I can say the most generous of gestures ever made from my frame of reference is someone offering to order for me when dining out (requiring the host to know me rather well or extremely willing to take a risk~both gestures equally impressive).  But as we all know, what is true in real life is also true in the culinary arena.  We make choices.  In prior year blog posts I've boasted the attributes of a local "U pick Strawberry" option in my backyard ~Dempsey Farms~which is my "go to" place for the ruby jewels, but I recently had the opportunity to taste off some rather scrumptious berries from another locale, Scott Strawberry and Tomato Farms in Unicoi, Tennessee. And for my Lowcountry brothers and sisters seething at the thought of selecting anything over a South Carolina product, the choice at the time was a direct result of having been in contact with Fred Sauceman.  Though I imagine he'd acknowledge that we worked together or around each other at East Tennessee State University in the 1980's he's less likely to acknowledge I have any authority in the food world.  But his opinion weighs heavy for me in what is to be considered "good food" so I follow his posts on Facebook to gander at his food photos and read about his latest culinary endeavors. While he's the full time East Tennessean and I'm the full time South Carolinian this whole business of tasting off strawberries started when he posted a photo and commented on some Upstate SC strawberries he had acquired. So naturally I felt compelled to try the same in reverse on my recent visit to East Tennessee.  All I can say is the berries from Scott's were super sweet and though I tagged Mr. Sauceman on my FaceBook photo glowing about the attributes of the berries in his back yard he overlooked the gesture and remained quite mute on the point. But then I'm not one to crave acknowledgement and the whole point of the exercise was to try them not to throw them up in the face of a published Southern Food writer. Bottom line, I love the berries in my backyard in South Carolina and when my backyard is East Tennessee I continue to adore the berries in my backyard.  Therefore, I'm not making a choice between two rich jewels at all, am I!? Nor should you.

Little Wilbur Trout Pay a Visit

Little Wilbur Rainbow Trout

Most of us plan forward for our travel, visitation and meal time activities. Many times that includes what should be carried "in hand" as tribute for our hosts along the way.  I notoriously always indicate to my guests the best gift anyone can provide is themselves first (by visiting and being present) followed immediately by a culinary product from their region.  Sometimes it's a unique beverage like a boutique wine or locale craft beer, other times it's a food product unique to their region of the country and then sometimes it's a special meal compliments of the guest (prepared and cooked in house or consumed out at a favorite restaurant). I tend to elect for the later myself.  That is, the preparing something in house. I personally make the process of "in house" a grand affair so that the host and home occupants get in on the action.  That "action" includes the menu planning, grocery shopping, time in the kitchen, service at the table, lingering conversations after the meal, and of course the dish washing. I think it's a carry over from a time period in my life when money was not plentiful and I found myself on the road traveling the coast visiting friends with nothing but my wit and ability to cook to compensate them for their generosity.  This week my 84 year old father, as many of you will recall "the avid fisherman," brought fresh water trout.  Not just any ole trout.  Rainbow trout from Little Wilbur Lake, a TVA reservoir (Tennessee Valley Authority for those not familiar).  I can attest that the water is very cold and clear and stocked regularly with rainbow trout, which explains my father's enthusiasm in presenting me with seven foil wrapped beauties (his creel limit for the day, two days prior to his visit).  If I were to prepare to my father's palate these fish would have been pan fried with  flour, but in my continuing effort to introduce him to alternative preparations I opted for the whole fish/coarse salt version I've featured previously in this blog. It's an easy prep, 30 minutes in the oven, simply service and your done kind of recipe and for the occasion fit quite nicely when feeding an elder parent who insists on prompt delivery of his meals (which becomes precarious when eating out as prompt can mean immediate some days).  I made Alton Brown's Raymond Beurre Blanc to accompany the fish, but had to make sure a bottle of ketchup made it's way to the table as well. As some of you know my dad's palate requires smothering his fish in the red sauce (hey he's 84 and I'm not going to push my luck after detouring him away from fried). Fish from home, time with my dad, and memories made to order.

In the land of Dr Enuf

Going home to Appalachia is at times a necessity, other times an immersion experience to recall a rich cultural link that I share by birth and familial allegiance. Over the years I'd smile silently when someone would mention the Smokie Mountains, Cherokee National Forest, Eastman Kodak, Tennessee Valley Authority, Roan Mountain, Beech Mountain Ski Resort, Grandfather Mountain, Watauga Lake, Boone Lake, The International Story Telling Center, the Penland School for Crafts, Tweetsie Railroad, The Biltmore, or the Bristol Motor Speedway. Reminiscing places is a favorite past time for most of us as is recalling food and beverage experiences. This particular visit home had a mission associated with it other than to spend Mother's Day with my father. That is,to purchase a soda drink called Dr. Enuf -- not found in the Lowcountry much less any place else other than in the Tri-Cities -- so that it could be used to produce a beverage I longed to include in my evening porch rituals in South Carolina. Dr Enuf I must note that my admiration for this beverage is certainly in its flavor and connection to East Tennessee but it also stems from the clever branding strategies of the bottler to distribute the product. "The Doctor has Arrived" seems to herald what can be bottled and consumed to achieve great verve and fortitude. Dr. Enuf at its inception claimed to relieve people's "untold misery" from aches and pains, stomach disturbances, and general malaise. And such claims of relief fuels my incorporation of Dr. Enuf in a porch-time libation. The libation being the Junior that I enjoyed at City House in Nashville, Tennesse. So as I sit peacefully to enjoy the later evening solitude of my porch I whisper "Indeed the doctor has arrived."

The Junior (from cocktail menu @ City House)
Death’s Door White Whiskey, Crème de Violette, Dr. Enuf, Lemon